


What It Is

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: A Bit Romantic, BBC, Hurt John Watson, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Mary I love you but you don't exist here sorry, Post-The Reichenbach Fall, Sherlock - Freeform, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship, Sherlock Holmes Returns after Reichenbach, not much sorry, platonic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-21
Updated: 2014-07-21
Packaged: 2018-02-09 20:10:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1996212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has good and bad days.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What It Is

**Author's Note:**

> First fanfiction thingy I've actually done anything with. Mary doesn't exist right here. John doesn't have a mustache. I know, I know, shit's crazy.  
> I don't know if it's just a one-shot or a collection of one-shots. Depends on what you guys think.  
> Let me know if you find any mistakes.  
> Enjoy!

He's still got Sherlock's old phone. The little black device, handy enough to be conveniently stuffed inside pockets and jacket folds, sturdy enough to have survived a various of "bored" incidents. It's got a few scratches here and there, but sometimes, John can still convince himself that if he leaves it some place impractical or inconvenient, it'll be picked up eventually by someone else than Mrs. Hudson. On good days, the wound doesn't burn as much as it could. On bad days, it feels as though it'll never truly heal.

On good days, John shops for groceries. He smiles at a few people on the street and nods at the bus driver and doesn't yell at the pin machine - much. He cleans the apartment and doesn't even look at the door to Sherlock's bedroom. He chats with Mrs. Hudson in her kitchen, compliments her cookies and thanks her when she remembers that he doesn't take sugar. He ignores the uncertain sadness to her voice. Good days are few, but John uses them, treasures them like the golden motherlodes they are.

On bad days, the world loses every little splotch of colour it has ever had. John's vision is grey, his footsteps slow. He can usually feel it the minute he wakes up, because he never really does. He opens his eyes and despair curls itself in the pit of his stomach, with a low rumble that makes every limb heavy. Sometimes he gets up and it feels like it did three years ago, when he'd sit perched on the edge of his bed, staring intensely into nothing, eyes glassy with empty thoughts.

On bad days, he doesn't take a shower. He makes tea or coffee that goes cold in the cup and prepares breakfast that ends up in the rubbish bin. He tunes in on a show that is left unwatched and unfolds papers that stay unread.

On bad days, John calls Sherlock's old phone.

Not sure what he's doing, he'll stop dead on the stairs, in the bathroom, in the kitchen and dig out his phone. He'll tap the number with quick, mechanical movements, staring anonymously at the display and press it against his ear until it hurts.

The other phone will ring from somewhere in the house, loudly through the heavy silence and John will grit his teeth, waiting it out, pretending, dreaming, wishing until it stops. Then it comes. Sherlock's voice.

On bad days, John will break down in sobs, sometimes soundless, sometimes loud, always violently sending shudders through his body as he curls up or lean against whatever surface is nearest. He'll try to muffle them with a shaking hand so he can listen, in undisturbed silence, to the late consulting detective's baritone voice reminding him about the acceptable and unacceptable reasons to call. He almost, almost smiles when his name among two others are mentioned as people allowed to call when Sherlock is - was - busy. The voice mail will end few seconds after, in the middle of a good bye and John will drop the phone.

On bad days, he will throw it against a wall.

On bad days.

On bad days.

Bad days.

Bad days.

Bad.

Days.

 

 

 

 

He isn't sure if today is a good day or not. He hasn't called the old phone, but he hasn't visited Mrs. Hudson either. He's grocery shopping, nearing the self checkout with a cautious expression. It treats him well today, it seems, right until an obnoxiously loud 'beep beep' in his pocket makes him fumble with his cash. Coins roll over the floor and he swears under his breath, accepting the loss of two or three pounds as something bearable. He pats himself down a few times before he finds the phone and pulls it out.

He will still to this day swear that his heart stopped beating for three whole seconds, staring at the number on the screen. It could be a prank. It could be a ruse. It could be so many things but what it is not, is John staying longer in front of the self checkout machine.

What it is not, is two or three pounds wasted.

What it is not, is caring about the wallet and the groceries he left behind.

What it is, is the world's only consulting detective telling his blogger to forget the milk and come home.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!  
> I'd appreciate it - also called 'love and cherish you forever' in some cultures - if you'd throw me a kudos and tell me what you liked and/or didn't like.  
> Kay thnx bai.


End file.
